Book Three: DIDI AND THE GUNSLINGER RIDE AGAIN

She bends far forward, her tummy aching from holding her in place where she half hangs over the massive compost pod. The stench of rotting human waste hits her in the face every time she inhales, her nostrils flaring in grim determination despite her need to retch. At least her compressed stomach can't disgorge from this position, her booted feet swinging from the ground while she grunts against the weight of the massive wrench in ...